


infernal acronyms, or: hecate hardbroom’s misadventure with modern slang

by atheneglaukopis



Category: The Worst Witch (TV 2017)
Genre: F/F, contains more cheese than the entire state of wisconsin, gay witches in love, this started off as pure crack, which then gradually morphed into fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-26 14:27:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13237650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atheneglaukopis/pseuds/atheneglaukopis
Summary: "She sniffs once in disdain, and closes her eyes. Whatever the students may have said, she has convinced herself that she does not want to know."just HB dropping some eaves and subsequently driving herself mad trying to understand the foreign language that is modern slang





	infernal acronyms, or: hecate hardbroom’s misadventure with modern slang

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hihoplastic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hihoplastic/gifts).



> this all started with a text when I cracked myself up about HB getting called an HBIC and not having any clue whatsoever what it meant, and it sort of spiraled out of control from there. enormously cracky with some hicsqueak fluff toward the end
> 
> dedicated to my dearest, most wonderful friend hihoplastic. you got me into this mess, love, so this disaster's especially for you. ENJOY

 

She's stalking the halls, her pre-dinner patrol nearly complete when she hears it: a half-whispered statement, made louder by the echoing nature of the castle's drafty corridors and teenagers' inability to share gossip quietly, followed by the tittering laughter of the speaker's cohorts.

"Yeah, clearly HB is the HB I see around here."

An... _odd_ sentence, indeed, no matter which way one parses it. If this and their pupils' abysmal papers are sufficient evidence, Ada really ought to invest in an on-staff grammarian. Part-time, at the very least. There’s just enough room in the budget to accommodate another—

She blinks and lightly bites the tip of her tongue, bringing herself back to the issue at hand. Well, she thinks, the HB is obvious: the students have been calling her that since her very first year of teaching, a hazy number of years ago that she's content to leave unexamined. 

And yes, Hecate thinks further, as foolish a statement as it may be, she _is_ the one and only Hardbroom they’d see here at Cackle’s Academy, though she instantly abandons that train of thought for a more pressing one: perhaps they've spotted her and are speaking in poorly-concealed code? She considers it for a moment, checking the stone floor for shadows or the windows for a reflection, but no, there is nothing, precisely as she expected. Her invisibility spells are impenetrable, and she would never make such an amateurish mistake. They most certainly cannot see her standing, arms crossed, brows raised, nails drumming against her upper arms, at the opposite end of the hall.

She narrows her dark eyes, purses her lips in concentration. Not "I see," then. Though, as the next most likely option of "eye sea" is also nonsensical rubbish, Hecate finds herself at a loss. It is not a feeling of which she is particularly fond, and she feels the corner of her lip beginning to curl up in annoyance. (To quell her rising curiosity and irritation, she appears, with her characteristic air of thinly-veiled threats and sharp, icy composure, behind the quartet of third years a second and a half later. Their shrieks and panicked looks almost make that unwelcome feeling gnawing at the pit of her stomach vanish into thin air.  _Almost_.)

Later that evening, after much deliberation and pretending not to care a whit about the incident at all, Hecate deduces that the whole phrase must be an acronym, similar to their shortened version of her surname. HBIC. Herself... then what? She snaps her fingers, simultaneously changing into her sleepwear and activating the emergency wards on her door, before lying in bed and pulling her deep green quilt resolutely up to her chin. She sniffs once in disdain, and closes her eyes. Whatever the students may have said, she has convinced herself that she does not want to know.

*******

_She absolutely needs to know._

_Hates_ how this insatiable desire to understand the hushed chatter of children has wrested even a fraction of control over her life.

It has been four increasingly desperate days since she overheard those wretched, dreadful girls in the hallway and she has run every conceivable combination through her mind one after another in quick succession, to no avail. (Incites chaos? No. Infinitely cantankerous? No. Ignorant cow?? Definitely not. They wouldn't dare.) She scratches endless possibilities from her mental list, which becomes too lengthy and cumbersome to keep track of, so the list spills onto paper, a mess of hurriedly inked words jumbled and disorganized and not at all resembling her typically neat and flowing penmanship.

After dinner on Friday, before they set off on their evening rounds, Ada requests Hecate's presence in her office. She beckons Hecate to sit down in her customary overstuffed armchair by the fire and pours out the tea, gaze shifting between the dark circles beneath Hecate’s eyes and the chipped polish on her thumbs; watches the cup jostle almost imperceptibly in Hecate's normally rock-solid grip. Ada sighs into her sickeningly sweet tea, and when she asks if something is terribly wrong, it comes out more as a statement of fact than a question.

Hecate stills, teacup halfway to her lips. Despite her substantial efforts, days of staring at papers with little to no sleep seem to have caught up to her at last, and a faint twitch of her eyelid betrays her further. Hecate feels an instinctual stab of shame at inadvertently causing another person to worry for her, and Hecate steels herself, opening her mouth to deny it, to reassure Ada that she is perfectly fine, when Ada raises a hand to interrupt, and smiles that kind, warm, and slightly conspiratorial grin that she knows has the power to silence Hecate more than any words possibly can. Damn her.

"Take tomorrow for yourself," Ada says, all pastel innocence, unnervingly bright blue gaze meeting Hecate's over the rims of her glasses, and, before Hecate can begin to protest, she continues. "You're working too hard, Hecate, so I'm afraid I must insist.”

Hecate _always_ overworks herself, a fact of which Ada is fully aware, but Hecate is in no hurry to correct her about what has her so remarkably and irrationally unsettled. Hecate is not in any mood to be laughed at, regardless of Ada’s good intentions, _thankyouverymuch_.

“Hecate, dear, are you listening?”

Ada’s gently amused voice cuts through her thoughts. _No,_ she is not. But Hecate raises her brows as high as possible to show just how affronted she is, and Ada continues, unperturbed, counting commands off her fingers as if speaking to a particularly stubborn child.

“No marking. No re-cataloguing the potions storeroom. No lurking in the library to frighten unsuspecting students." She stops, eyes sparkling in a manner that has Hecate immediately on edge. "However, I'm sure Miss Pentangle would be pleased to see you..."

If she were speaking to anyone else, that suggestion would have received a vicious, pointedly enunciated retort and a forty-page manifesto on propriety and tact and  _how dare you presume such things_ , but by the Goddess she is so outrageously tired and this is Ada, after all—cherished friend, esteemed colleague, and meddler extraordinaire—and Hecate knows that arguing, in this case, is futile. So she simply glares, downs her lukewarm tea as swiftly and haughtily as possible, and transfers to her own quarters to mirror Pippa in some semblance of privacy, cursing Ada, the entire student body, modern slang, and most of all, herself.

*******

The following morning finds Pippa, pretty in pink as usual, casually lounging on the sofa in her cozy sitting room at Pentangle's, sock-clad feet comfortable in Hecate's lap as the latter woman attempts to run a frantic hand through her hair  _again_. This is the fifth time in half as many minutes, and she only succeeds in drawing out even more flyaway strands from the efficiently wrapped bun perched atop her head. Pippa, rolling her eyes so dramatically it may as well be audible, waves her free hand not clutching her fuchsia-and-cream tartan mug in the vague direction of her girlfriend, whose hair releases from its tight confines, cascading down over her eyes like willow branches, and obscuring the small stack of parchment paper on which she's been scribbling for the better part of an oppressively silent hour.

"What is it that you’re working on, Hiccup?" she asks, curiosity and mirth weaving together in her voice. "I haven't seen you this stressed out since you thought you'd answered question thirteen incorrectly on our midterm exam in fifth year chanting."

Hecate’s grip on her pen tightens and she seizes the hair in front of her face with her other hand, tossing it over one shoulder and trying not to grind her teeth.

“You haven’t touched your tea,” Pippa continues candidly, tilting her head to one side, as vestiges of steam curl from the matte black mug on the nearby tea table. Pippa blinks. "And you look like you're fit to erupt."

“And I might as well,” Hecate all but barks, “for if I fail to solve this idiotic, Goddess-forsaken riddle, then flinging myself into the nearest volcano would be just penance.”

Pippa tamps down a wide grin—Hecate’s theatrics have not diminished with age, and after so much suppressed pain and sorrow and longing, this embellished aspect of Hecate’s personality is a gift for which Pippa is grateful. What was it the kids are calling it these days? Ah, yes. _Extra._

With that thought, Pippa cannot restrain her grin any longer, and she hides it behind her oversized mug.

“Iceland.”

Hecate abruptly looks up from her work. “What?”

“The nearest volcano. It’s in Iceland." Pippa turns delighted eyes to Hecate’s frowning, frustratingly lovely face. "Otherwise you’ll have to go to Italy, if you want a warmer, more scenic route.”

Hecate’s mouth thins. “And I don’t suppose you’d do the honours of pushing me in, would you?”

“Oh, Hiccup,” Pippa laughs, tucking her feet beneath her and readjusting her position so she can plant a tender kiss on Hecate’s cheek. “You’d never make it over the sea. As the better flier, I’d catch you up in a heartbeat and drag you back home on a lead.”

Hecate seems legitimately torn between quarreling and turning to kiss her back, so Pippa makes the decision for her, pressing a second lingering kiss to the corner of Hecate’s dark pink lips, and adds another tally mark under her own name in her mind at the somewhat dazed look in Hecate’s eyes.

“Now,” Pippa forges ahead, happy that the stiff agitation has begun to leach from Hecate’s frame. “Perhaps I can help you?”

Hecate leans hesitantly into Pippa’s side, more heavily, then, when the action is not rebuffed, and covers a soft twitch of her lips with a long-suffering sigh.

"Earlier this week,” Hecate says, “I overheard some girls whispering in the hall—"

"So you were eavesdropping, then," Pippa interrupts, fond exasperation lacing her tone. “Unsurprising.”

Hecate, true to form, ignores her. "—and they were discussing something about me that they must have found to be the absolute height of comedy judging by their incessant snickering—"

"—have you never heard the old proverb?” Pippa jokes. “That eavesdroppers seldom hear anything good about themselves—"

"—and for the past week,” Hecate intones, voice hardening in displeasure, “I have done my utmost to discover what they meant by HBIC, but _nothing_ makes _any_ sense _whatsoever_ —"

"They called you  _what_?" Pippa’s astonished disruption causes Hecate to pause, drawing away slightly to meet Pippa’s eyes more directly.

“HBIC. Hardbroom…” she gestures with her once again immaculately manicured fingers, “something or other.”

Pippa’s brow furrows, recognition sparking slowly in the depths of her eyes.

“HBI—” Her momentary confusion gives way to peals of laughter, loud and hard as she hasn’t laughed in _years,_ and Hecate grabs at her mug before she can drop it and drench the rosé upholstery with her honeyed peach-flavoured sacrilege.

Hecate stares in gobsmacked silence, eyes wide and lips pressed tightly together in a thin line, as Pippa clutches her stomach as she heaves, tears forming at the corners of her eyes. It takes all of her willpower to prevent herself from tumbling off the sofa, and she clings to Hecate’s arm, balancing herself as she tries to catch her breath.

Hecate, bless, is more dumbfounded than offended, distracted as she is by the attractive flush of Pippa’s cheeks. After depositing Pippa’s mug on the table and ensuring Pippa will not, in fact, melt into the floor, she remembers herself, raising a single eyebrow and _scowling._

“What, exactly, was that about, Pippa Phyllis Pentangle?”

Pippa takes a moment to wipe the tears from her face, retrieve her tea, and appreciate the sound of her full name falling from Hecate’s lips, no matter the fact that Hecate knows how much she loathes her middle name.

Though, she supposes, fair is fair—she _had_ laughed quite a bit longer and more hysterically than strictly necessary, and she knows how strongly Hiccup hates being left in the dark.

While the playful smile remains, Pippa sobers at that thought, and pats Hecate’s thigh apologetically through the rough material of her dress.

“HBIC. It’s an acronym.”

Hecate just barely refrains from rolling her eyes.

“Yes, I’ve gathered as much, thank you.”

“However, it has nothing to do with your name. It _is_ funny,” she says, “the things you learn when you chat informally with the students from time to time—”

“Pipsqueak.”

“HBIC stands for ‘head bitch in charge.’”

Pippa just blurts it out, no warning at all, and she derives immense enjoyment from watching Hecate process what she’s revealed. It takes a moment to register completely, but when it does, Hecate’s mouth falls open like a codfish, impeccably sculpted brows rising to heights heretofore unknown, and the silence begins to stretch as words continue to evade her.

“It’s quite the compliment, really. Shows how much they respect your competence,” Pippa explains, and she pauses, about to clarify further, when Hecate begins to chuckle quietly under her breath. Pippa snaps her mouth shut, afraid to make a sound and drown out the rare glory of Deputy Headmistress Hecate Constance Hardbroom giggling like they were schoolgirls again. Such carefree laughter was a rare indulgence even then, reserved for the times when they’d huddled amongst pillows and blankets in Pippa’s vibrant dormitory room between revising sessions, the bed littered with their books, notes, and the crumbs of raspberry scones pilfered from the kitchens.

It has been such a long time, and Pippa savours this moment, tucks it away into a precious corner of her heart that belongs wholly to Hecate—has always been Hecate’s—and beams.

Hecate’s returning smile is small, but genuine, and she clasps Pippa’s hand lovingly in her own and squeezes.

“While not remotely the conclusion I expected, I must admit that I am rather pleased with this… nickname of theirs.”

“Mmm,” Pippa agrees with a wink, fingers absentmindedly lacing together with Hecate’s. “It suits you.”

Hecate glances down at their twined fingers. “It does.” With a concise wave of her free hand, she vanishes the pen and papers in her lap to her satchel hanging on a hook by the door, ridding herself of the final remnants of her vexing week. Shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh with Pippa, her whole posture relaxes at last, and she exhales softly, smiling again. “Though not as well as Hiccup.”

Hecate stifles a yawn, eyelids involuntarily fluttering shut, and rests her head in the crook of Pippa’s neck, and Pippa, heart stuttering in her chest, rubs her thumb in soothing circles against Hecate’s cool skin.

“Go to sleep, Hiccup.”

“I don’t need sleep.”

“You do,” Pippa insists, Hecate’s habitual obstinance not nearly so convincing when weakened by the weight of her exhaustion. “You’ve resolved your problem and now you can let yourself rest.” She kisses the crown of Hecate’s head, inhales the faintly floral scent of her hair. “I’ll still be here when you wake up, my darling.”

Hecate does not reply, does not even stir at the endearment, and before Pippa can mentally recite the preamble to the Witches’ Code, Hecate is fast asleep, breaths deep and steady and even, ensconced in the warmth of the room and the comfort of Pippa’s presence. She hopes Hecate won’t be mortified later, embarrassed by the softness she keeps buried beneath black leather and sharp edges and an even sharper tongue, but Pippa grins to herself, cheeks colouring in mischief.

She knows plenty of ways to wipe that apprehension and self-doubt from Hecate’s wondrous face.

Satisfied, Pippa rewarms her tea with a thought and places it gingerly on the cushion adjacent to her, silently casting an equilibrium spell to keep it firm on the unstable surface, and summons a battered, dog-eared copy of her favourite novel from the crammed bookshelves in her bedroom.

She levitates it within reading distance of her face, leaving her left hand free to idly stroke Hecate’s hair and grasp her mug for a sip now and then.

She sighs in contentment, serene and secure, and Pippa settles in for a long, lazy Saturday with her dear Hecate by her side, feeling with adamant conviction that they are precisely where they were always meant to be. 

_fin_


End file.
